I am tired, the night is not free. it recedes past the rest of my imagination. the fact is here I lie writing this of what I think although nothing is less than a thought not what I think of this late at night, or a dog in town who will bark, this far away, is it not the thought that counts, the sound itself? the night is nothing itself, anything else but the light pressed before everything in the dark, the dog and the imagination supplies the details.
30 December 1973